


all the minutes

by Atanau, el3anorrigby, kaijusizefeels



Series: If You Love Something Set It Free [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Hurt Illya, I try to write feel, M/M, Napoleon Cares, Protective Illya, that damned watch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-06-26 06:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15657471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanau/pseuds/Atanau, https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/pseuds/kaijusizefeels
Summary: Five times Napoleon returned Illya's watch, and the one time he kept it.ORThat fic I started based on the_worrying_kind'scomment6 MONTHS ago.Update: added new chapter written by el3anorrigby and images by Atanau





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_worrying_kind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_worrying_kind/gifts).



> This fic owes its existence to [the_worrying_kind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_worrying_kind/pseuds/the_worrying_kind). The title also came from her (from this wonderful [poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/watch)). And without her, this fic would be a rambling incoherent mess. 
> 
> Also, lots of thanks to my grammar Nazi Manasi. Alas, I may be hopeless.
> 
> Since I knew nothing about watches, I had to look up a lot of stuff and ended up with a bunch of headcanons. See the notes at the end.
> 
> Chronologically, this story is a prequel to my series [If You Love Something Set It Free](https://archiveofourown.org/series/763248).

**I.**

“He took my father’s watch.”  
  
Truthfully, that was the first time Napoleon thought to pay any attention to Illya’s frumpy wristwatch. It was an old Pobeda (named ‘Victory’ by Stalin) model, made in the Chistopol Watch Factory of the USSR Department of Defense. As a timepiece, it was neither old nor remarkable enough for Napoleon to have noticed it before.  
  
Peril, if he was telling the truth, clearly had a (foolishly) high opinion of his own ability if he was willing to wear such a prized possession into the field. Napoleon would never; his treasures, what little amount was left after Interpol’s and the CIA’s raids, were carefully hidden and tucked in various storage units around the world — in case of a rainy day — of course. He had been so careful about those stashes. Yet, as it turned out, Sanders knew about them anyway.

It was just as well that Illya had lost his watch before he went swimming in the Vinciguerra harbor. Napoleon was not sure that Soviet engineering would have survived the dunk.

***

"Huh." Napoleon stared down curiously at a familiar looking timepiece.  
  
Once he had lifted up the cap off the Vinciguerra guard, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the one who took Illya’s watch; Napoleon never forgot a face. With great restraint, he opted to knock the loathsome man out, instead of shooting him in the head.  
  
Napoleon unstrapped the watch from the unconscious man’s wrist and looked at it critically. It really did seem like a simple, unremarkable Pobeda from the 50s. Nothing stuck out immediately to suggest that it was some KGB modified superweapon.  
  
The watch ticked speedily and was clearly well maintained. The glass was pristine. Even the back only had a few shallow scratches. Curious, he tried on the watch. The buttery soft leather band curled comfortably around his wrist.  
  
_I wonder what Peril would say if he were to see me wearing it._  
  
It wasn’t the worst thing he ever had strapped around his wrist but nothing that instantly demonstrated his sophistication like his Rolex Explorer or his Patek Philippe Calatrava; it really was a pauper’s watch. Besides, Sanders would have more than a few choice words for him if he spotted Napoleon wearing a Pobeda.

With that thought in mind, Napoleon pocketed the watch and made a mental note to return it to Peril — after a sufficient amount of gloating obviously.

***

In between chasing down a fascist and some painful knocks on the head, Napoleon had forgotten about the watch until he was packing up his suitcase. It had survived completely unscathed in his pocket; the Pobeda proved to be as hardy as its owner.  
  
Napoleon laid it out admiringly on the bed as he finished packing. Despite the cheap steel case and austere design, it was a handsome timepiece with its own unique charm. Perhaps he could keep it, on the chance that it was some sort of modified Soviet secret weapon. Napoleon was definitely not interested in any sort of memento of his strange and short-lived partnership with the Red Peril.

***

The watch simply lay there; the hands smoothly ticking away as Napoleon teetered between drawing his gun to confront Peril’s wrath or... or what?  
  
“Here, I got something for you.”  
  
He threw the watch at Illya, who caught it unerringly despite his surprise. The practiced ease with which Illya strapped the Pobeda back onto his wrist affirmed that it was an important thing to him. So, it was just his father’s watch after all; Illya had been telling the truth.  
  
“You know what my mission is,” the giant whispered hoarsely.  
  
“Same as mine was. Kill me if necessary.” Napoleon flipped his draped waistcoat over to reveal the computer tape underneath, “to get that.”  
  
Sanders would kill him if he hears about this.  
  
But he preferred to not die at the hands of the super agent just yet. His head was still sore from the tire iron.  
  
Fortunately, killing him seemed to be the furthest thing from the Russian’s mind as he gaped wordlessly at Napoleon with startled blue eyes, struggling to get ahold of his emotions.  
  
The Russian walked across the room in two strides. “You found my father’s watch," he said, partially in awe, partially in gratitude, and even a bit accusingly.  
  
Napoleon simply shrugged and answered, “I’m good at finding things.”  
  
The Russian pressed forward into his personal space as if the sheer bulk of him could somehow press an imagined confession from Napoleon.  
   
Napoleon held his ground. “I’m good at a lot of things,” he smiled up at Illya with a lot of teeth. As expected, Peril did not smile back; no sense of humor in this one.  
  
“What should we do about that?” Illya eventually stepped back and gestured to the tape.  
  
“Give me a minute to think about it.”  
  
At the same time, they realized that they had been in this exact situation just hours before. Napoleon chuckled despite the shadows still lurking in his mind of Rudi’s photo album and his electric chair. A small grin actually broke across the severe Russian's face.  
  
“Cowboy.”  
  
“Peril.” Napoleon handed over the computer tape with a low bow before he followed Illya onto the balcony with a lighter and an ashtray.

***

**II.**

Illya was a cipher, and Napoleon couldn’t help but be magnetically (and disastrously) drawn to the man.  
  
He was drawn to the width of Illya’s shoulders, the span of his hands, the rare occasions those lips curled into a small smile; he was drawn to how meticulously, almost religiously, Illya maintained his two most prized possessions: his Makarov pistol and his father’s wristwatch.  
  
Napoleon was a thief above all else, and he was especially weak in the face of such temptation. More importantly, he was curious. Not so much about the Makarov, because he had used one before, but about what Peril would do if Napoleon got ahold of his Pobeda once again.  
  
However, Illya hardly ever took his timepiece off now, so the window of opportunity was small. Plus, once he realized that it was missing, Illya would surely suspect Napoleon first.  
  
So Napoleon did what he always did when faced with a tough job, he planned.  
  
Every sleight of hand was a two-step process. The first step was misdirection: the moment when your target paid attention to something else other than you; Napoleon waited for his perfect moment to strike. **  
**

***

That moment came one afternoon as Illya and he were walking down a hallway while discussing mission prep for an upcoming trip to Geneva.  
  
For once, Illya seemed unusually distracted. Napoleon looked around and saw Gaby chattering happily with a sandy-haired young man, Tim from Research and Development, he recalled after a moment. It was obvious from the nervous way he was standing and Gaby’s bemused expression that they were talking about something more than just the report in Tim’s hand.  
  
He looked back and saw Illya frowning intensely in Tim's direction.  
  
_Ah. So that's it.  
  
_ The awkward Russian still hadn’t declared his intentions to the lovely Miss Teller.  
  
Illya’s attention had turned completely to Gaby and her besotted suitor.  
  
"Perhaps we should go and say hello," Napoleon suggested even though there was an unpleasant sensation bubbling underneath his skin, and his hands itched with fecklessness. Before he was even completely conscious of his actions, Napoleon stumbled and fell against Peril, a quick apology ready on his lips. His right hand, however, had already curled around Illya’s watch strap and freed the clasp with an ease that came from years of practice.

_Just a bit more._  
  
He gently squeezed Illya’s wrist to leave an impression that the watch was still there before pocketing his stolen good when a vice-like grip clamped around his wrist. Illya twisted his hand upward. The stolen watch dangled clearly in the wrong person’s hand between the two of them.  
  
“What are you doing with my watch, Cowboy?” Illya glowered menacingly down at Napoleon.  
  
It seemed that Peril wasn’t so distracted after all.  
  
Napoleon grinned with chagrin now that he got caught, “just checking that living in the West hasn’t slowed you down at all, Peril.”  
  
Pale blue eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Give it back."  
  
Napoleon obediently dropped the timepiece into a large outstretched palm.  
  
"Suka," Illya huffed, not for the first time while rolling his eyes as he strapped the Pobeda back onto his wrist. They continued on their way to Waverly’s office without bothering to interrupt Gaby and her awkward, stammering beau.

***

Napoleon felt the tiniest prickling of guilt for his failed attempt earlier. “Peril, any plans for tonight?”  
  
Illya grunted a noncommittal answer.  
  
“Dinner at my place then? Let me make it up to you for borrowing your watch. What do you say?”  
  
Illya stopped to stare at him. His expression was as inscrutable as ever. Napoleon shuffled nervously on his feet; this was the first time that he had ever willingly invited a colleague to his place. Eventually, after a long while, Illya nodded, “I will bring vodka. No more thief games, Cowboy.”  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it, Peril."  
  
Relieved by Illya's easy agreement, Napoleon felt a grin stretching across his face as he hurried to keep up with his long-legged partner.

***

**III.**

His subterranean cell was dank and so very cold. Napoleon shivered and tried to draw his knees closer to his chest. His new bruises protested the movement. It had been hours since Madame Girard’s ugly henchmen, Thing One and Two, unceremoniously tossed him into this hole in his birthday suit.  
  
Napoleon sighed, regretting more than a little that he had told Illya not to tail him earlier. "This will be a piece of cake, Peril," he had said to a befuddled Illya — who could not understand how dessert might be involved in this mission.  
  
For a bunch of luxury watch counterfeiters, who had accidentally brushed against the tendrils of the global spy game, they were certainly thorough. The first thing they did upon his capture, was to strip him of his worldly possessions before tying him up and shoving him into the back of a filthy car trunk. They threw away everything — his silk tie, that beautiful bespoke navy-blue Balenciaga suit, even his handcrafted leather shoes — except for his suitcase. So, even if Illya had bugged his shoe or any of Napoleon’s clothing, as he was wont to do, he would only find a discarded tracker amongst a dusty pile of rags (damn them) on Rue Lepic.  
  
Napoleon's chest ached from the cold. He rubbed his hands up and down his goosebumps-covered arms.

Why were they not taking him out of this frozen place for questioning already? At least then he would be warm. Tortured and in pain most likely but warm.

The door of his cell swung open with an ominous creak just as Napoleon was hit by yet another full-body shiver, this one strong enough to knock his head back against the cell wall several times.  
  
"Piece of cake?" a familiar baritone said amusingly. After waiting for a beat for Napoleon to finally stop shaking, Illya gestured for him to hurry up, “come on."  
  
Napoleon staggered to his feet and walked out of his cell with as much dignity as he could muster in his naked state. The sense of pure relief at Illya's unexpected presence warmed him but not enough to stop his chattering teeth.

A hideously ugly but thick Russian-scented suede jacket was suddenly thrown at his face. Napoleon moaned loudly in relief as he slid his arms into the overly long sleeves and smothered himself completely with Illya's left-over body heat.  
  
Illya pushed past him with a cough. "Let's go, Cowboy".

***

Thankfully, their escape was uneventful. Illya even had the presence of mind to grab Napoleon’s suitcase.  
  
Back in their hotel, and completely rejuvenated from his shower, Napoleon asked the question foremost on his mind, "how did you find me? Even if you bugged me bugged, they tossed my clothes and shoes out of the car."  
  
Illya gestured to the suitcase.  
  
Curious, Napoleon heaved it onto his bed to inspect the contents again. Nestled discreetly in the velvet lined display case amongst rows of yellow gold Rolex and white gold Patek Philippe wristwatches was Illya's Pobeda.

_Oh._  
  
Napoleon noticed for the first time Illya’s bare left wrist. He held up the watch carefully and covered for his surprise by asking, “you bugged your father’s watch too?”

Illya took the watch back from Napoleon with a shrug. "Is prudent when working with a thief.”  
  
He grinned widely at Napoleon’s sputtering protests that the last time had been temporary insanity; he would never bother to take a mere Pobeda again.

***

**IV.**

“Solo, get out! Now!” Napoleon heard Illya’s roar through his headset. Illya’s frustration caused his speech to degenerate into a jumble of Russian curses.  
  
“I got this, Peril.”  
  
He was so close; he could just see Wasserman cowering behind his car not more than 30 feet from him. If they lost Wasserman that day, they could lose the entire trail to the underground human trafficking ring and waste nine months’ worth of surveillance and undercover work. There were only two armed guards left between him and Wasserman.

_How did a creep like Wasserman manage to hire ex-special forces?_

Napoleon ducked lower as a spray of bullets pinged against his cover. Meanwhile, Illya had gone quiet on his end. Napoleon was just about to run out of his cover and make a grab for Wasserman when two black Jaguar XJ6 rolled up and six armed men stormed out, brandishing assault rifles.  
  
“Shit”, Napoleon cursed. There was no way he could take them all now.  
  
The smell of burning rubber suddenly filled the air as a car stopped between Napoleon and his new assailants. “Get in, Cowboy!” Illya shouted. Again, appearing exactly at the right time and place where Napoleon needed him.  
  
Illya backed up the car in a hail of bullets. Napoleon yelped and covered his head with his arms to avoid shattered glasses. Eventually, he peeked up to see Wasserman and his goons quickly disappearing in the distance and heaved a relieved sigh. “Thanks, Peril. I owe you one again."  
  
“Peril?” Napoleon looked over, a little surprised at Illya’s silence. This was usually the time when Illya would start lecturing him about what a terrible spy he was.  
  
“Illya!”  
  
He panicked at the sight of Illya's bloody palm pressing against his abdominal area.  
  
_God!_  
  
From the tense frown on Illya’s face, sheer willpower was what was keeping him conscious. They sped through the streets. Illya’s driving remained mind-bogglingly flawless until they slammed into the curb of the main emergency entrance of St. Luke’s Medical Center.  
  
Napoleon jumped out of the car before it came to a complete stop, rushing to the driver side door to pull Illya out. “Help! I need some help here!” He yelled as he struggled under the bulk of Illya's inert form, half dragging and half carrying him towards the hospital entrance. The metallic scent of blood filled the air.

And even though he knew that it was crazy, Napoleon swore that he was surrounded by the sharp whiff of cordite once again.

***

Napoleon found himself sitting dejectedly in the hospital hallway holding onto Illya’s Pobeda in a deathly tight grip.  
  
He couldn’t lose this. He couldn’t lose Illya _.  
_  
“It’s not your fault.” He jerked to attention at Gaby’s soft voice, “You couldn’t have known that Wasserman would have backups.” She rubbed gentle circles on his back with one hand. The other reached for his hand with the watch, “Napoleon, you need to wash up and let them take a look at you.”  
  
Napoleon shook his head and curled away. She stayed with him as they waited for a word about Illya’s condition. Even though Gaby was so much smaller and so young, at this moment, she was the only thing holding him up; she was his pillar of strength.  
  
Gaby rushed to her feet as soon as the surgeon appeared.  
  
Napoleon’s heart jerked haphazardly inside his chest. He was afraid to listen, but he needed to know. He saw Gaby’s shoulders tense and feared for the worst. The watch in his grip felt as heavy as a stone.  
  
Then he saw her shoulders relax and he was suddenly encased in her embrace. “He’ll be alright. They said that the bullet missed his vital organs. Illya will be just fine after a couple of weeks of physical therapy.”  
  
Napoleon’s body shuddered as he was forced to exhale; he hadn’t even realized that he was holding his breath until Gaby repeated herself, “they say we can come and visit him tomorrow.”

***

After Gaby dropped him off at his penthouse, Napoleon showered off any traces of blood but didn’t bother to even attempt to sleep despite his exhaustion.  
  
Instead, he pulled out his jeweler’s loupe and sat down at his desk, underneath a bright lamp, and carefully opened up Illya’s Pobeda. The inside of a mechanical watch was a universe unto itself. Every part, from the tiny gears in the going train to the springs and escapement, had a purpose, a contribution to the functioning of the entire timepiece. That little artificial world only looked complicated; in reality, it was much simpler than dealing with the complexities of the real world.  
  
There was very little he could offer Illya now, except to make sure that his prized timepiece was clean and well-maintained enough to run flawlessly for the next hundred year. Even though it had been a while since he did this, Napoleon's well-practiced thief-hands were as steady as a surgeon’s as he carefully dissembled the watch and picked up everything with a tweezer in order to be washed in the cleaning solution.  
  
Dozens of gears and springs spread out across Napoleon’s dining table like stars in the night sky. He hunched carefully over them, inspecting everything with a critical eye for dirt and wear. His vision wavered with exhaustion but he simply rubbed his eyes and continued on.  
  
He double checked and triple checked the reassembled mechanism to make sure everything worked before closing the case. The smooth movement of the hands around the watch dial filled him with an immense satisfaction. He replaced the worn leather band with one of the softest hand-crafted calfskin strap from his own watch collection and buffed the glass and steel case to a flawless shine.   
  
When Napoleon finally raised his head to look out of his penthouse window, it was already well into the next day.

***

Gaby had already called Napoleon to tell him that Illya was awake and asking for him. He waited until the evening before dropping by the hospital. Just as he had planned, Illya was asleep.  
  
Illya looked paler than normal, hair limp and dull, but his face was relaxed rather than pained. It was a small miracle that the hospital had even managed to find a bed long enough to accommodate the Russian. The small table next to the bed was already full of cards and get-well baskets from Gaby, Waverly, and other members of UNCLE.  
  
Rooted to the ground by indecision, Napoleon simply stood there while holding onto a velvet-lined watch box that cost ten times as much as the watch inside. He wanted to just set down Illya’s watch and leave — cowardly though that might be — almost did so as he turned toward the door except something gripped onto the tail of his trench coat.  
  
“Cowboy?”  
  
Napoleon turned back and saw Illya blinking hazily at him.  
  
_Damn_. Caught red-handed, again.  
  
“Hey, Peril, glad to see you’re awake,” he held up a glass of water for Illya, who sipped from it gratefully. “I came to drop off your watch,” Napoleon gestured to Illya’s bare left wrist and helped him to sit up.  
  
“Thanks. Doing alright, Cowboy?” Illya waited for a beat and then said, “you look terrible.”

Napoleon pressed a hand to his heart, “I think you need to look into a mirror, Peril. You’re not looking so dapper yourself these days.”

“I got shot. What is your excuse?”

Napoleon knew what he should do next: smile back, make a bad joke, humor Peril, and then excuse himself to get the Hell out of there. Yet he couldn’t get his mouth to cooperate.  
  
His usual ability to call up a charming smile from nowhere failed. His mouth turned downwards, and Napoleon had to look away for a moment to hide his stinging eyes.  
  
This time, it was him who couldn’t hide the minute tremors in his hands.  
  
_Illya had gotten shot._  
  
_Illya had gotten shot and was worried about him._  
  
_Illya had gotten shot because he had messed up. Again._  
  
“Cowboy?” He heard again as a large cold hand grabbed ahold of his.  
  
“Illya, just lie down already!”  
  
“What is wrong?!” Illya glared mulishly up at him even though it was clearly taking a lot out of him. His grip was strong, though nowhere near as strong it would have normally been, as he dragged Napoleon toward him.  
  
Napoleon did his best to avoid Illya’s eyes. He wanted to get out of there; his instinct screamed for him to run away –– before he accidentally gave voice to the feelings that had been brewing inside of him since Istanbul… maybe even Rome?  
  
But Peril held on.  
  
Napoleon tried to pull away again.  
  
Peril gripped harder and pulled him closer, stubborn until the end. Napoleon had always known that he would lose to Illya in a battle of wills.  
  
“You got shot and it was all my fault! If I had not insisted on confronting Wasserman, you wouldn't have needed to come and rescue me. You wouldn't have gotten shot."  
  
Illya frowned, “was ambush, Cowboy. Bad luck.”  
  
Napoleon, exasperated by Illya’s nonchalance, blurted out, “Illya, you could have died because of me. I can’t live with that. What I’m trying to say is that.” Unbidden tears pooled in his eyes, and he rushed to speak before Illya could. The words tumbled out of his mouth, raw and unpolished, “I’m a bad spy, just like you said, unprofessional and a degenerate. I will ask Waverly to reassign me to a different team. You won’t have to --“ Despite his injury, Illya managed to yank Napoleon down into an embrace. Their lips briefly pressed against one another.

It was possibly the worst kiss that Napoleon had ever had. Illya’s lips were chapped and dry; his mouth tasted of iron and medication.  
  
And still, Napoleon couldn’t get enough. His tongue danced and tangled with Illya’s. Someone was whimpering softly, and it took him a little while to realize that it was him.  
  
Eventually, they pulled apart. Peril no longer looked quite so pale. His cheek took on a healthy hue; his eyes lively and bright.  
  
“You always overthink things, Napoleon, accustomed to your masks and mind games,” Illya said as he finally let Napoleon go before sinking back onto his pillow.

Napoleon gaped at him in astonishment, feeling as if he had suddenly found himself in a completely different script altogether.  
  
“Illya?” KGB agents weren’t supposed to do that, he was sure. Peril wasn’t supposed to do that.  
  
“After I got shot, I had one thought. I do not want to die without kissing you. I have done so. I am satisfied.”  
  
“You!” Napoleon fumed, “what? You never said! I --” He didn’t know if he wanted to throttle Illya or kiss him again.  
  
He did the only thing he could think of and chucked the velvet-lined watch box at Illya’s broad chest. “Here’s your watch. We’re going to have a long talk after your discharge about communicating with your partner.”

He stalked out of the room and barely remembered not to slam shut the door at the last moment upon seeing the ‘Silence Please’ sign on the opposite wall. Napoleon smacked his head back against the door with equal amounts of exasperation and relief as Illya proved his peculiarity once again.  
  
He pressed the tips of his fingers to his still-tingling lips in wonder.

***

**V.**

Napoleon came to consciousness around his usual wake up time. It was still early, the sunlight barely peeking through the curtains. The warm arms around him made him want to snuggle back into their embrace, but years of ingrained army habits proved too hard to ignore.  “I’ll make breakfast, Peril,” he whispered and then pressed a kiss to a muscular shoulder before quietly slipping out of bed.  
  
He got a muffled grunt in reply as Illya rolled over to sprawl across the newly vacated space.   
  
Napoleon grinned.  
  
Who would have thought that his Russian bear was actually a late riser? Still, perhaps Illya deserved a rest after last night.  
  
The enthusiasm that Illya showed, having finished (bulldozed his way through more like) his physical therapy only a few days before, had astonished Napoleon. He was not a small man, so it was more than a little impressive that Peril could hold and fuck him against the wall at the same time.

Illya’s impatience in response to Napoleon’s umpteenth “are you sure you are alright, Peril? We can wait a bit more” rendered him a wild beast. He trembled a bit at the memory, the rush of being taken like that, held close and tight by large hands, a reservoir of pleasure to be savored and filled by Illya’s tongue and his magnificent dick.

Even though Napoleon was a little sore and sensitive this morning, no one had ever made him feel as desired and cherished as Illya. Maybe Illya deserved both a rest and a reward.  
  
He grabbed his watch and pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. He ran a hand through his curls but decided that he was feeling too lazy that Saturday to style his hair.

***

Napoleon was flipping pancakes when Illya sleepily walked into the kitchen, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, no doubt drawn there by the scent of freshly brewed coffee.  
  
Despite his bed hair, Illya was effortlessly sexy as he yawned and stretched, inadvertently showing off a sliver of muscled (and completely healed) abdomen.  
  
Napoleon coughed, resolutely determined to finish his cooking before anything else happened that morning. “Pancakes will be ready in about,” he looked down to check his watch for a precise estimate. Instead of his (current favorite) Breitling Top Time, with its dual chronographs and 18k gold case, Napoleon found a familiar Pobeda sitting snuggly on his wrist.  
  
“Ah, sorry Peril. I must have grabbed it by mistake.” He unstrapped the watch to hand it back.

***

**+I.**

Napoleon held out the watch, waiting for Illya to take it from him.

He waited and waited.  
  
Minutes ticked by and Napoleon was still holding out the Pobeda to Illya. He turned away from the stove top and saw Illya staring intently at him.  
  
Being under such scrutiny again was making him nervous. The last time someone had studied with such concentration was during his sentencing, when the CIA was trying to figure out what to do with him.  
  
Had he said something wrong, done something offensive? Last night was good, great even, wasn’t it?  
  
Was Illya having second thoughts about a thief-turned spy?  
  
“Peril?" He held out the watch to again, like an offering. "Illya? Here, you can have your watch back.” Napoleon nervously rubbed the back of his neck as the Pobeda marked each passing minute with regularity.

“No, you keep it, Cowboy.”

Illya’s long fingers curled completely encircled Napoleon's wrist. “I like the idea that something of mine," he began as he gently strapped the Pobeda back onto Napoleon's left wrist, “is with you all the time."  
  
He finished with a soft smile, cupping Napoleon's stubbled cheek gently before tilting his face up for a kiss. It was a gentle, soothing kiss. Slow and deliberate. A complete departure from their desperate hunger last night. Eventually, they had to pull apart to breathe.

“Ya lyublyu tebya (I love you).”  
  
Illya’s words were mushed together since Napoleon didn’t let him finish before he was up unto his toes to chase down Illya's taste again.  
  
"This is mine now, Illya," he crowed, waving his watch-encircled wrist, "and I'm never giving it back."  
  
"Ok, Cowboy,” Illya agreed readily, laying a large hand against Napoleon’s cheek. For the first time, Napoleon noticed all the laugh lines at the corner of Illya's eyes.  
  
_When had that happened? When had the KGB super agent become so human?  
  
_ He watched those same lines crinkle and deepen around sky blue eyes as Illya smiled down at him, “yours to keep, Napoleon.”  
  
The soft, unguarded expression made Illya look ever so boyishly handsome that Napoleon found himself falling in love all over again.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful interlude written by [el3anorrigby ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby) and gorgeous image by [ Atanau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanau/pseuds/Atanau).

“Peril,” Napoleon moaned, still unsure, but goddamn it, he wanted it too. “You sure about this?”

“Yes,” Illya growled, “will show you what I mean.”

Illya’s injury had healed and he wasn’t going to wait any longer. And he lost it when Napoleon’s thighs around his waist squeezed at him, asking him to get on with the act. With incredible strength, Illya’s feet shifted, and then began to fuck Napoleon like he meant it, hard and bruising against the wall. But it was worth it, the feel of Napoleon in his arms was worth it, and Napoleon’s breathless keening moans spurred him on. Wanting and needing more, Illya then used one large hand to grip his buttocks hard, using Napoleon’s weight to force him to take him all in.

And Napoleon, god, he was so ready to come but couldn’t touch himself even if he wanted to because his hands were pinned against the wall, high above his head. And all he could do was to let Illya have him however he wanted, the way he wanted; and that was Illya imprinting himself on him with himself chained under the weight of Illya’s maddening love and lust until he admitted defeat with a loud, hoarse yell.

Shaking and trembling, Napoleon stumbled limply as Illya let him down, later, with arms around him and legs like jelly, and he thought it was over until he heard Illya mouthing against his neck, “I want to fuck you again.”

Napoleon could only nod, and then Illya’s teeth were on his skin, biting. Napoleon’s senses were all over the place when Illya started to work his long fingers languidly on him again and as he leaned his head back against the wall, all Napoleon could hear was his stuttering breaths and a dazed lustful plea of “Illya, please.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> According to the [internet](https://forums.watchuseek.com/f10/guy-ritchie-shoots-pobeda-man-u-n-c-l-e-2254537.html), Illya was wearing a Pobeda TTK 1 in the movie. The brand is certainly appropriate due to Illya's father's connection with Stalin. 
> 
> However, it is a dress watch and is therefore not water resistant. I think it would have been more appropriate for it to have been a dive watch (i.e., watch for divers). Those things are far more durable. [Vostok](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vostok_watches) supplied such watches to the Ministry of Defence of the Soviet Union. My headcanon is that Illya's father had been a soldier and bought it himself (or it was a gift from Illya's mother). Illya treasures the watch not only because it was his father's but also because his mother told him stories about how the watch saved his father's life.


End file.
